by Bryan Way
Without preamble, I lead Ally and Mel outside to find a few scattered flurries sailing toward the ground. Ally splits off and heads toward the bus while Mel and I hop in the Humvee. My first act is to pick up the CB that our ‘friends’ hastily installed on top of the vehicle’s military-grade radio and make sure Rich and I are on the same channel.
“Rich, you got me, over?”
“Loud and clear, over.”
“Alright, let’s get this movable feast underway. Over.”
“You’re sick, Grey. Over and out.”
I look up at the school and immediately notice that the band uniforms have been removed from the Thomas Massey banner above the auditorium. I’ll have to remember to thank whoever took care of that when we return. Rich revs the engine, pulls the noisy bus out of the school’s front lot, and leads us to the left, allowing me to pass him as I cut the same path Anderson took to get us to Springfield.
Though I have my regrets about the purpose of the trek to retrieve our computers, the information we gleaned was invaluable; we proved that the Route 1 onramp to I-476 North was free from blockage only a few weeks ago, and that our path was clear throughout the northbound lanes of what is colloquially called the Blue Route, connecting Philadelphia to the Mid-County Interchange. From there, we must travel the uncharted territory of the Northeast Extension until we hopefully unite with our southbound friends on or before Route 80.
Once on the road, I have Mel search my phone for Alan’s number and dial him. He doesn’t answer, so I leave a message and slip the phone back in my pocket.
“Does that… worry you?” Mel asks.
“What?”
“He didn’t answer.”
“Not really… he might have it on vibrate, he could’ve left it behind, the battery might’ve died, the cell tower’s down…”
“Oh…”
Oh. A twinge of doubt I’d just as soon avoid. As I turn on to route 320, Mel motions toward the cup in the console. “Mind if I have a sip?” She asks. I lodge no objection, so she takes hold it and drinks, her face curling in displeasure.
“What is that?” She spits.
“Earl Grey.”
“Tastes like… watered down coffee…”
“Well, you’re obviously not a tea drinker…”
“No… is it, like… a family thing? Earl Grey ?” She asks.
“Oh, no… though it adds to the appeal. Captain Picard got me started… but I’d been a tea drinker my whole life.”
“Why?”
“Parents, I guess… no matter what they made for breakfast, I always had tea and orange juice.”
“That’s nice…”
I look at her as she stares blankly through the windshield. Over the next minute, I watch Mel’s enlarged eyes glaze over as she gets lost in thought. She breathes slow, erratically inhaling sharply. “That’s nice that your parents did that.” She repeats after far too long. “What were they like?” She asks, her eyes staying fixated on the middle ground ahead.
“My parents? Normal, I guess… dad was a salesman, mom was a nurse…”
“And they made you breakfast…” She mutters.
“Yeah… well, mom did… every morning. How about you?”
Mel’s bottom lip curls up as she shakes her head.
“No.”
“I mean… what were they like?”
“Mom was an insurance agent… dad was CFO for metalworking company. Weren’t around much… in middle school I was making my own breakfast, packing my own lunches… other than picking me up from baseball practice, they pretty much left me alone…”
“That explains why your crowbar swing has ‘major league’ written all over it. Didn’t your parents… I dunno, keep tabs on you in school?”
“This one time…” She snorts, a big smile eclipsing her face before she continues. “Freshman year… I got called into the guidance counselor’s office… wasn’t doing so hot. ’Neglect’ was the word he kept throwing around… had me in that office for a fucking hour… and he knew he was wasting his breath, I saw it on his face the moment I walked in. Right before he cuts me loose, he says he left my parents a voicemail. So I take the late bus home, and the whole time I’m thinking what they’re gonna do… knowing I’ll get off easier if I just own up. So I get back and tell my mom he called… and you know what she does? Goes over to the phone and deletes the message. Turns out he called her like a month before, and she’d been screening him ever since.”
“That’s awesome.”
“Yeah… I dunno. Sometimes… you don’t always want to be left alone.”
“Right, I can see that…” I start, and for some reason it occurs to me that I don’t remember when I first met her, what I first thought about her, and how I never imagined unfamiliar high school classmates as having families. “But you weren’t, like… alone alone… you always had a lot of friends…”
She says nothing.
“…what I mean is… you had someone you could… talk that stuff out with, I mean… right?”
“I don’t think I found out what it meant to be alone ‘til I broke up with John…” Mel blurts out.
“John?”
“Alescio? It was like that thing with you and Julia… my friends were telling me he was a pussy?”
“Oh yeah…” I mumble.
“My best friend Brenda never liked him, and my parents didn’t care enough about my boyfriends to take notice. And there was a long time when they shoulda… the guys I was friends with… it was just a big fucking contest… who was the toughest, who had the best clothes, best bling… half the time you don’t pick who you chill with, and you know they bitch behind your back anyway… but I didn’t think I broke up with John because of what they said… it was like… he was too nice to me. Anyway… three weeks later my dad died.”
“Jesus… I’m…”
“…don’t.” She says flatly. “He had a… heart… thing. Hyper-cardio something… every once in a while he’d get chest pains and go to the hospital… they always said he’d be okay, but one day he just… that was it. My mom… didn’t take any time off after the funeral. It was pissing me off… she just acted so… normal. Then I noticed some little stuff… she bunched up pillows on my dad’s side of the bed and wrapped them in an electric blanket… started… making me breakfast. My friends said they’d be there… all of ‘em… and that douche bag guidance counselor. But I knew it wasn’t sympathy … it was pity. And I fuckin’ hated it.”
“A few months ago…” I start, after a moment. “You mentioned that you’d lost someone… was that your dad?”
“Yeah… I could’ve talked to him about it… to John. I know that… but I was terrified to make it right… and he was seeing someone else. Brenda talked so much shit on him, I’d never live it down… and I didn’t wanna look desperate. I felt like such a bitch…”
“How’d you get through it?”
“…I didn’t.”
I don’t know what to say, and she senses this instantly.
“My mom just got worse and worse… but she still wouldn’t say a word about dad… until she tried to blame him for not taking care of himself. It was like she spent three months trying to find a way to make it be okay… and this was the best she could come up with? Oh, I just let her have it. And she broke down. Never seen anything like it before. Like she just… gave up. So now, when I think about my mom… that’s what I think about… that she was just sitting at home… waiting to die.”
“…didn’t you say… she was going to your aunt’s in New Jersey?”
“Doesn’t matter. I can’t… that’s what she’s doing in my head. Giving in. Your parents wanted to come back for you. My mom just… gave up.”
“I hope you don’t… blame yourself for that…”
She takes a moment to respond. “I do. But that’s the way it goes.” I nod in complete agreement. “You ever… tell anyone about this?” I ask after another silence, prompting her to chuckle before replying.
“Not everyone’s like you.” She scoffs.
“…how do you mean?”
“You don’t keep anything to yourself… “
“…you don’t know that.” I state.
“I guess not.”
We drive in silence. I lean into the steering wheel as I board the onramp to 476 North, immediately observing two military vehicles; Strykers, if Anderson educated me properly. Both appear to be abandoned. As we make our way onto the highway, I look behind me and see the line of k-rails dividing the road into two lanes, one presumably for military transport and one for civilian traffic. At the first opportunity, I merge into the military lane, assuming that it is more likely to be free from stopped vehicles. The road bends off to the left as we pass under the bridge that made Anderson nervous three weeks ago, and once we’re clear I breathe a sigh of relief and clear my throat.
“So… I don’t want to be rude, but, uh… did your mom remarry?”
“…how is that rude?” Mel asks.
“Whenever you talk about parents, you tend to use the plural… not just your mom, you know… like you have two.”
“Oh… no… I hate having to explain. When you open yourself up to people, you show them where to put the knife in.”
“That’s… an interesting philosophy.”
“It’s not a philosophy, it’s the truth. A hard lesson… but one you learn through and through.”
Another silence follows.
“Do you… feel any better… talking about it?” I ask.
“I don’t know…”
“Well… I’m glad you did.”
“…why?” She asks.
“You were… open. I like that.”
Mel finally smiles, and I know that talking more could only sully the moment. Ten minutes pass, then twenty, then we come up on the toll plaza that marks an intersection with the Pennsylvania Turnpike. “Coming up on the Northeast Extension… over.” Rich intones over the radio, startling me. I fumble for the receiver before I’m able to confirm.
We pass through the toll plaza without incident. I’ve travelled this stretch of road hundreds of times throughout my life; my father previously owned a cabin near the middle of the state, so taking 476 to 80 was a common occurrence, but this trek has never felt so alien. If I had to compare the experience to anything, it would be the first time I shared a car with a driving instructor and he offhandedly directed me onto the highway. An experienced driver wouldn’t bat an eyelash, but to a neophyte, it is not unlike being unceremoniously shoved into a running of the bulls.
Beyond the toll plaza, the k-rails interrupting the two northbound lanes cease, replaced by a smattering of state police vehicles that have been long-since abandoned. Many of their doors are open, and the light snowfall covers any possible traces of tire tracks or blood. Unlike our swatch of highway, the connecting route 276 has significantly more cars jamming up the on and off ramps. Contrary to my expectations, the dead traffic is not wall-to-wall. As Rich mumbles something on the CB, my attention is drawn skyward to a thick cloud of black smoke bottoming out on the horizon and tapering toward the northeast.
“What do you suppose that is, over?” I ask of the CB.
“What? Over.” Rich replies.
“The smoke.”
“Ohhh yeah… I see that… no idea, over.”
“I mean, it’s a fire… but is that the highway? Over.”
“Don’t know… don’t think so… whatever’s burning, that’s too big for an accident… looks more like a building. Over.”
“Well, that’s not exactly good news…” I continue.
“I guess we’ll deal with it when we get there. Over and out.”
We’ll deal with it when we get there? No shit. In the meantime, we keep driving toward the source of the smoke. I involuntarily rub my hand over my face and scalp. We could be stopped by anything at any moment, and if a fire has spread to the highway, we might have no way of passing it, especially if it’s covering an interchange. If that’s the case, what if Alan’s cell phone really is out of commission? What can we do to let him know we’re on the other side? Suppose whatever calamity is causing this smoke befell some part of the highway two hours north? Or the Lehigh Tunnel? We can just go back to our high school, where we have clean water and supplies awaiting us. If they turn back, they have nowhere to go but an apparently barren college town with a poisoned reservoir and a psychopath in their midst.
Suddenly, this entire venture seems like an enormously bad idea with consequences that reach far beyond whether or not we can return safely. Just as soon as I have these thoughts, I shake my head in an effort to dismiss them; what were the alternatives? Let Alan and seven other people die of thirst while we twiddle our thumbs? Could we live knowing that we essentially condemned them? If we all die trying to link up, would the venture still be worth the dozen or so lives sacrificed in an effort to achieve its goals?
“Why’d you shake your head?” Mel asks.
“Uh…” I stall to avoid admitting that she caught me in a trance.
“Jeff… if you can, try to plan how you’re gonna get around obstructions a little further in advance…” Rich offers. “…the bus has a slower rate of turn… no need to cut it close. Over.”
“Roger. Over and out.”
“So?” Mel asks.
“I, uh… do you ever catch yourself shaking your head… or talking to someone who isn’t there?”
“Well, yeah…”
“Okay… well… that’s what it was.” I state.
“Oh. So why’d you do it?”
The desire to lie in response to this question rages up my windpipe, but I manage to stifle it. I have to wonder, what’s the point in lying now? As I take note of the fact that our roadway is boxed in on either side by two unending strips of snow dusted conifers, I lay my thoughts bare.
“I… I was thinking this is a bad idea.”
“What… going to help your friends?” Mel asks.
“Yeah…”
“No… of course not… I mean, are you just gonna let ‘em starve?”
“No… that’s why we’re doing it.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“…what if they die, but we make it back?” I ask. “What if it’s the reverse? What if we all die?”
“…what if we all live?”
“Obviously that’s the goal… but we don’t know what’s out there to stop that from happening.”
“So… you think this is a bad idea… because something might go wrong?”
I try to measure my response to that, but she cuts me off.
“That’s a bullshit way to live.” Mel continues. “Do you think that way when you go to a party, or get in your car, or play football? I know, you don’t play football… but you don’t stop yourself from doing something because there’s a risk, do you?”
“We’re arguing scale, here…” I say, warming to the topic. “I’ve heard that the chance of being struck by lightning is one in a million. Well, okay, but where are you in a lightning storm? Unless you get stuck outside, you’re in a building, or a car, right? I’d say that significantly reduces your chances. Now, what if every time there’s a lightning storm, you climb a telephone pole and hang off the wires?”
“Then you’re an idiot.”
“Exactly. And that’s how stupid this is. The world at large was never a safe place. That was an illusion of social conventions and rule of law, both of which no longer exist. Take away repercussions and the violent, territorial animals will do anything to survive… and occasionally, do horrible things for fun.”
“Did that stop you from coming after me and Helen?”
“…no.” I reply.
“Why not?”
“Because…”
“…it was the right thing to do.” She interrupts. “Something bad coulda happened at the mall, the police station, the high school, the community center… that didn’t stop us from taking a chance. If we did nothing, we woulda died in Oct
ober. You can’t hit every pitch. But I’d bet on our average.”
“Me too.”
“So what’s the point in arguing?”
“This is.” I state.
“What is… what…?”
“The point.” I insist. “You could’ve told me this was a shit idea, or bring up some… obstacle I hadn’t thought of. But you think it’s worth doing. Sometimes, that’s all you need to hear.”
Up ahead, I can see an accident covering the breadth of our northbound lane with a corpse lying supine on the ground next to one of the vehicles. Covered in snow and frost, the body rigidly sits up, the tendons crackling as the powder frees itself from his joints. “Rich…” I say into the CB. “You see a… emergency U-turn back there?” I slow to a stop.
“About half a mile. Over.”
“Good… we’re not passing here… think the bus can get through? Over.”
“We’re gonna find out. Over.”
More rhetoric I could do without. I turn myself around and pass Rich, who has to reverse until he can find level enough ground to turn the bus, and eventually we make it to an emergency off ramp. Unsurprisingly, Rich’s turn is made with some difficulty, but he manages to get the bus down the ramp after I’ve burst through the gate deterring motorists from attempting such a maneuver. Despite the adrenaline rush from doing something so taboo, my mind is fixated on something Mel just brought up.
As we travel down an unsurprisingly abandoned suburban street and turn right, I look up at the overpass we recently exited. Passing a dumpy fire station, I take notice of a filthy, armed cluster of people huddled around a well-worn fire pit in front of a tin awning. They regard us with unambiguous vitriol as we drive beneath the overpass and make another right on the access road, continuing northbound in the southbound lane.
